This film is based on the aftermath of the terrorist attack at the 1972 Olympics, is quite intense and designed to make you think a little as well as get your heart rate up. I enjoyed it more than I had expected because the characters were protrayed as flawed and the plot (which only has the Munich episode as a background) went somewhere unusual for movie of this genre. Daniel Craig's performance demonstrates to some extent why he has been given the 007 job.
Not a comedy per se, more of a romcom, beautifully shot and quite intersting, it is about a wealthy guy and a shop assistant. I read the book and it is as good as or better. Rightly or wrongly I assume it is to some extent autobiographical.
........one of your family members eaten a nut that wasn't your fault in the last three months?
Today the sea is light grey and flat and appears to stretch out to infinity as it blends seemlessly with the sky. There is a complimentary eerie quietness about, occasionally a straining speedboat engine or some arguing seagulls reveal how little noise there is. The interesting idea on which that disappointing film was based comes to mind.
Last night a documentary aired on More 4 entitled "Unidentified White Male". Three years ago a 35 year old man found himself on the subway in New York. He knew nothing about himself, his name, where he lived, his job. He presented himself at the Coney Island Police Station from where he was taken to Mount Sinai Hospital and checked into the psychiatric department. He was told he would stay there until someone he knew came to collect him. He had no identification on him at all but in a Spanish book he had in his ruck sack there was a post-it note with a woman's name and phone number. When the hospital staff called the number the nice lady at the other end was unable to help. She did subsequently suggest to her daughter however, that she might call the hospital on the off-chance that she might know the man. She did; she had dated him a few times and so she collected him and took him home to his apartment. We learnt that he had been brought up in various European countries before becoming a stock broker in New York. Aged thirty he had made enough money to retire and chose to change vocation and become a photographer.
The cause of his "accident" was unknown but he had suffered a complete erasure of his "episodic" memory; the part that contains records of all the events of our lives. His "procedural" (the "how to" bit) and semantic (meaning bit of his) memories were intact. The effect of this was to render him without any context for his life, no knowledge of his friends or family, of world history, any history, art, food, politics. He was however still, eloquant and intelligent.
Initially he is very frightened due to his isolation. Perhaps surprisingly, very quickly (a few months later) he reaches a point where he is not just ambivalent at the prospect of his memory returning but he would prefer it didn't. This is because he is a man with no baggage. He does not feel responsible for the person he was before his accident and is unencumbered by the memories we all have that make us who we are.
When he is introduced to his old school mates they mourn the departure of their friend. He is very polite to them but they no longer share a past. Everyone observes how he is no longer the outgoing go-getter he was. He is now an intropsective, philosophical, aesthete. He sees everything as new, for the first time. When he goes to the beach and paddles in the water he is moved to tears by the "extraordinary energy" of the water. He does not recognise his family but identifies a "chemical" connection to his sisters. There are no stereo-types for him, only originality.
His friends feel they are twenty years older than him, not because he is childish but he has a lightness. Indeed although not referred to specifically in the film, he comes across as very cool, he does not seem to have any of the ego problems other have. A friend mentions in an email that he looks forward to reaquainting him with the delights of West Indian cricket when they next meet. "Is that a drink or an insect?" he inquires. His photography tutors believe his work has improved dramatically.
Is he the same person? If it were discovered for example that he had committed a crime in his former life; would he be punished now? Is he blessed?
Today has been coloured with a kind of contented melancholy which lingers from a dream I had last night. It is also tinged with something similar from the Psychedelic Furs album I have been playing over and over, since I bought it in the week. It is a reassuring sensation; in the dream I was in Glasgow at night. As far as the music is concerned, I cannot remember what I was doing when I used to listen to it all those years ago, but whatever it was, I must have liked it. Dying, I imagine, must be easier, when you are accompanied by this feeling.
I walked from Victoria up to Oxford Circus this morning where I was meeting my brother. As I approached Buckingham Palace I started to brace myself for the anticipated throng of visitors, there to see those blokes in tall hairy hats. Then I heard a brass band strike up; four slow chords which I recognised but couldn't immediately place. 5 - 4 - 3 - 2 - 1, it was the Thunderbirds theme tune. I have checked on Google and it was first played prior to the cavalry charge at Waterloo.
Two or three months ago I attempted to convert my favourite old cassettes into MP3 and would have been successful but for the fact that I seem to have a mono rather than a stereo mic socket on my pc. What did happen was that I started playing the cassettes again. I came to the conclusion that I would (in an unhurried way) watch out for Cds of my favourites and replace the tapes in due course.
I reckon that I will be able to go a long way to achieve this in a shop called Fopp. I found something that wasn't even on my list this morning; "All of this and nothing", by the Psychedelic Furs. As I type this, songs like "Love my way" and "Highwire Days" are having a similar affect on me to encountering someone that I was very fond of once upon a time, someone I didn't even realise I missed.
At the moment, the media is full of advice about precautions to take during the warm weather. Despite not being in an "at risk" category I do feel I have identified an omission. If you put a couple of cups of cold water in your kettle, place it on a high heat (don't put the whistle in if you want to avoid uneccessary noise) and leave for about an hour and twenty minutes, when you return your kitchen area will be a lot hotter than when you left it, even when it was uncomfortably warm in the first place. Next week; nuclear fusion and the domestic boiler and also, 20 things to do with your kettle handle.
George cross (or at least a little upset)
I enjoyed a pleasant Saturday afternoon in the Kings Rd doing a bit of shopping in that near-deserted thoroughfare. The bars were jammed to overflowing with ocassionally roaring and singing England fans. I am not one of those Scottish people who support anyone that England is playing, I am just someone who prefers, when possible, to shop without it getting too physical. It was quite interesting; the community feeling. I might be sampling the quality of a Comme des garcons shirt one minute but it would not be long before a taxi driver would ask if I knew the latest score; there was an all pervasive sensation that something was going on.
Eventually we decided to go for something to eat. When we got to the Big Easy, it was chokka but I realised that there would be a significant exodus in only a few minutes when I spotted that the game had reached the penalty stage. We considered the menu on the wall outside and in due course a particularly big sigh emanated from within and the building disgorged its unhappy occupants on to the pavement.
I felt vaguely guilty that the reason we were able to saunter in and enjoy a tasty burger was that so many had left, gutted.